Beside the Point
by
Stephen Cushman
The sky has never won a prize.
The clouds have no careers.
The rainbow doesn't say my work,
thank goodness.
The rock in the creek's not so productive
The mud on the bank's not too pragmatic.
There's nothing useful in the noise
the wind makes in the leaves
Buck up now, my fellow superfluity,
and let's both be of that worthless ilk,
self-indulgent as shooting stars,
self-absorbed as sunsets.
Who cares if we're inconsequential?
At least we can revel, two good-for-nothings,
in our irrelevance; at least come and make
no difference with me.
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